


Unpredictable consequences of not fully recognized desires (well, actually, quite predictable)

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Gay Panic, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sexual Experimentation, Spit As Lube, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Tim breaks the silence, because... what is he going to lose? He's sure that everything he says will stay in here.
Relationships: Marilyn Manson/Tim Sköld
Kudos: 5





	Unpredictable consequences of not fully recognized desires (well, actually, quite predictable)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Непредсказуемые последствия не до конца осознанных желаний (на самом деле, вполне предсказуемые)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/658918) by LunniLost. 



> Hello.
> 
> This is a translation that I've made of a story my spiritual brother wrote. Which is lovely and which I read two times in a row once I discovered it - and I could've easily made it three times. It's lovely.
> 
> Enjoy!

***

It's not a studio.

There is a pause in their conversation, a really long one, endless, but the contact between them is not cut off.

It's not an afterparty.

Not a hotel.

It's just a backroom in some club.

Nobody'll enter it.

The contact's not cut off.

The wall is covered in very interesting patterns.

The wall is very interesting.

Tim's looking at the wall.

Tim breaks the silence, because... what is he going to lose? He's sure that everything he says will stay in here.

"I know you aren't gay," he says, still studying the wall.

There is some movement on his left.

"Hm?"

"I know. But. Can I ask something?"

"Of course, why not?"

"You... Do you like... Fuck."

Tim's not afraid. Not really. It's just this is a bit...

Too much.

"Are you asking if I like you?"

Tim pshaws. He knows that he does. He doesn't know how much he likes him. Also, he doesn't know what it is he wants to hear.

"Depends on what it is you want to hear."

"Manson..."

Tim turns to look at him. And looks at him, almost pleading.

Manson shrugs and smiles.

Jerk.

A rare fucking type of it.

Tim huffs out air, glancing at the wall, then shakes his head. Looks at the rare type of jerk whose facial expression is that of idle curiosity. A pretty relaxed one.

Tim leans in and kisses him.

Tim's a good kisser.

Both of them are.

"Do you want me?"

Tim breathes this out almost as a whisper.

"Maybe."

"Jerk."

"No," Manson puts his hand over his nape. "Not right now. I'm a fucking angel now, Tim. You don't even know what it is you're offering or even if you are doing that. Besides..."

"Shut up," Tim says and kisses him again.

Manson pulls him closer.

"I'm not fifteen. I know what I'm offering. I don't know..."

"You don't know how far you're willing and able to go."

"And you too."

Manson laughs once and looks him in the eyes. _At_ them, as if they exist separately from him.

"I've never raped anybody and I'm not about to start."

Tim snorts.

Rape. That's a good fucking start they are off to here.

He shifts to sit in Manson's lap and leans closer, feeling his fingers on his lower back and warmth and something else that he can't identify.

Manson catches him by the chin with his other hand.

Tim quirks his lips, just one of his endless facial expressions that, likely, nobody even understands.

Somebody does.

The fingers on his lower back pull up his T-shirt.

How far...

"You can take it off me, if you want," Tim says, and it is not a permission and not really an offer. It's more of a challenge, a type of provocative behavior, the one you engage in when you don't know what to do, but try to make it look like you know everything, much more than everybody else, and also this is your own game, your masterplan. This is what you wanted to do all along.

Manson doesn't buy into it, but pulls the T-shirt off him anyway.

It's not like he's never seen Tim without it.

It's somewhat chilly in the room.

Inside of Tim - it's even _too_ hot.

"Your heart is thumping so hard I can hear it," Manson informs him.

 _Fucking jerk_ , Tim thinks. _Fucking, fucking jerk._

"That's because I have it," Tim shrugs.

And closes his eyes.

"I've never ra..."

"I know. Do something else."

Manson laughs and touches Tim's nipple ring.

Tim shivers.

It's not that nobody has ever done this, on the contrary, many people have.

It's just that he hasn't often shivered like that because of it.

"It's fine. You can... Harder."

 _If you want to_ , he adds without actually saying it.

If you want me.

Or at least the damn ring.

Then he almost cries out.

Manson pinches his nipple and pulls at the piercing, pretty hard. If he did it just a bit harder, it would've been painful.

"More?" he says, voice raspy, lower than usual, and something inside of Tim relaxes, now set free.

 _You want me_ , Tim thinks.

You definitely do.

Fucking jerk.

"Yes, but... Don't tear it out, okay?"

Manson makes a sound - a sort of rumbling. Lets go of the ring, pulls at it again, once more, and Tim is shaking, his throat vibrating on low frequency. Barely audible.

"What else am I _allowed_?" Manson asks him, his lips almost touching the helix rings in his ear.

Is he a piercing fetishist or something?

"I hate you," Tim responds. "You can't even imagine how much. Hate you. But... You can offer. I'll tell you if it's fine or not."

Manson drags his tongue over his ear, brushing against the rings.

"What if I..." 

And over his neck.

He doesn't say anything else for way too long.

Tim exhales sharply, nervous.

"Do you want me to suck you off?"

Rules of the goddamn game. It's him who has to make offers here. He's not the only one who has a heart.

"You can try," Manson lets go of him, and Tim almost falls.

Tim is very far from being a specialist in human psychology.

Tim feels hot and so on, he's not at his brightest at the moment.

But something he has realized.

Something that at least makes them equal.

Manson is scared of his own desires. Scared to death.

Tim himself almost stops being afraid of his because of that.

Almost.

He sinks down onto the floor.

He has a bit of fun dragging his tongue over Manson's fly, without unzipping it, looking up at him, because now it is easy and he enjoys needlessly prolonging this.

Then he unzips it.

Then he removes his hands. And just sits there on the floor, looking at him expectantly, and Manson, it seems, doesn't understand a thing. A priceless moment.

The Manson finally gets it and shifts awkwardly, pulling down his pants.

Tim tilts his head and moves his lips, sticking them out. He taps the floor with his fingers.

He doesn't say anything.

Manson snorts, observing his pantomime, but takes off his underwear anyway.

The priceless moment ends.

The last time Tim got carried away like this was in the previous millenium, and it is not just a figure of speech.

In nineteen ninety five.

Sometimes he's compelled to commit dubious acts of bravery.

Doubts fill his mind, but he really doesn't have any desire to drown in them like Alice did in tears.

He does what he himself has offered and, apparently, he's not bad at that, because the reaction's pleasant, because Manson jerks up his hips, pushing further down, deeper, and all but squirms.

Deeper.

Tim gags, but he doesn't mind and doesn't stop. He likes everything, it's just he doesn't really know how to do it and hardly ever wants to do it, but right now, at this exact moment, he seriously doesn't mind. It's impossible to learn right there at the spot, but at least he's trying and his efforts are appreciated for what they are. Or even more than that.

Manson shifts away and says something, hurried and breathless, something arousing, and Tim licks his lips, feeling Manson's taste on them, and doesn't understand a single word.

Then Manson pull him up again, to sit in his lap, and kisses with him for who knows how long, while his cock pokes Tim's liver.

Probably. Tim doesn't really know where his liver is. Not at the moment.

"Fuck me," Tim whispers, panting, and hopes that Manson doesn't demand fucking explanations, because he can't give him them, he really can't.

"I don't always have lube on me, whatever your opinion of me may be," Manson responds, sounding positively upset, and he's also panting, he doesn't demand any explanations, he doesn't demand anything at all, he does the very opposite of that.

"Try with spit," Tim manages and he is still wearing jeans and they aren't even unzipped and he is fucking tired of it and also - he didn't get carried away this far even when it happened to him in the previous millenium.

He hopes it'll work out.

Manson disentangles himself from him and takes off his shirt. One if his idiotic, unbelievably fashionable fucking shirts that are fine if he's on stage or at a party, that are fine for any other occasion, but not for this. Tim pulls off his jeans and lies down on his stomach, because he really needs this and he hopes it'll work out, even though it never has, but it's not like he has a ton of experience, so.

Then he cries out, more simply because he didn't expect this than for any other reason, but quickly relaxes into the sensations.

Fucking jerk.

With an amazing fucking tongue.

Tim outright moans, shoving his hand under his stomach and tugging at his cock, pushing his hips up to meet the amazing fucking tongue, and he could come like this, definitely, but he repeats his request, repeats it many times, asking Manson to fuck him, and he's almost sure now that it will work out.

Manson slips his fingers in him, still licking into him. He's careful, doesn't go deep, and a thought crosses Tim's hazy mind that he is a fucking robot and not a human being, but at least there aren't any doubts there anymore.

"Is it enough?" Manson asks him, voice uncertain, pausing the demonstration of his rimming talents.

Fucking, fucking jerk.

"Fuck, of course it is, I'll fucking die here now if you don't fu---" Tim says it way too loud, almost shouting, he doesn't remember that there're other people outside this room anymore and that this thing they are doing here is probably not what most of them approve of, he doesn't remember anything, but Manson, it seems, does, because he puts his hand over his mouth, cutting him short.

And tries to squeeze into his hole and, even though now it's not his fingers, it isn't painful, but still excruciating. It's excruciatingly slow.

Tim jerks up his hips.

And moans, repeating his motion. Fast. Sharp. The way he needs it.

Manson keeps his hand on his mouth and licks his ear, pulling at his nipple ring, hard, very hard, this _is_ almost painful, and Tim doesn't even remember having doubts, he's giving himself without them, the way he wants to, the way he wanted to, the way it's wanted from him.

Pretty soon he's three seconds away from orgasm.

Too fast. He lets go off his cock, hoping this will help. He bites into Manson's palm and hums, agreeing to his request not to shout again, and tries to do just that, uttering the words as quiet as he can.

"I uh... Don't pull out. Come when you're... Come inside me. I uh... Need you to... Fuck."

A priceless fucking piece of information.

No, really.

Manson nods, forgetting that Tim can't see him, and speeds up, and Tim doesn't touch himself, Tim simply lets him fuck him, have him, dissolving in this sensation, and this is where he's _never_ been carried away to.

He allowed this, of course.

Allowed is the word.

It was permisson.

It wasn't like this.

He still comes first, just a few moments earlier than Manson, who catches up with him before he starts feeling any discomfort, but Tim doesn't even notice it, because this, this is something that has never happened to him.

Luckily, Manson doesn't ask him anything. There isn't really anybody around to answer him anyway, Tim simply shudders with his whole body, putting his own hand over his mouth, and this is where he ends.

Then he dreams of something from his past. Something too vague to put a finger on it and think about, but it is something pleasant.

Then he wakes up alone, covered with his own clothes as his blanket, and laughs, seeing a note next to his head.

Manson's bulky, terrible handwriting.

"I wouldn't mind doing it again."

Tim laughs for who knows how long.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------


End file.
